Page 2 of The Secrets He Keeps

Callista smiled beneath her veil. Of course the man would see her. No one could resist an audience with Madam Pendragon, a woman celebrated throughout London for being the owner and proprietor of the most elite and fashionable brothel in all of England. It was a position she had no intention of relinquishing any time soon.

The butler led her up the wide mahogany staircase to a spacious landing on the second floor. From there, two hallways extended in opposite directions. Both were lit by elegant gas lamps and were lushly carpeted in more Persian rugs.

She paused to see which hallway the butler would lead her down and was momentarily surprised when he continued straight forward instead. The wall across from the landing displayed an elaborate carved relief depicting a scene of woodland stags and other small forest creatures.

Callista tilted her head as she studied the piece. Almost all of the artwork within Pendragon’s depicted Grecian themes of sexual congress—nymphs and satyrs, Zeus in his many forms with his many conquests. But this large bit of art was not the slightest bit sexual. It really was just a woodland scene.

The butler stepped toward the carved relief to press two fingertips against a knot carved into the image of a gnarled oak tree. There was a near silent click and then the entire wall panel gently swung open to reveal a short hallway and another staircase.

Callista’s lips twisted with reluctant appreciation. Finally, a little drama!

But why would the club’s proprietor have her brought up to what were obviously his private quarters when he could just as easily have come down to meet her in one of the common rooms? At Pendragon’s, she had a special apartment of rooms that were designed to appear as her private suite, though it was nothing more than an illusion to make the clients she received there feel important and cherished.

It made no sense, however, to go through the trouble of concealing the entrance to your personal rooms in such a way if you were going to reveal them to your visitors. Unless, he was trying to demonstrate that although he kept such things from his patrons’ knowledge, he saw her differently. Was it a way of treating her as colleague rather than guest or rival?

It suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. This man might prove to be a better adversary than she’d expected. A thrill of particular poignancy danced across her nape and she almost wished it were true. Ultimately, however, no man had ever proven himself to be equal to her in cleverness or ambition. She always won in the end.

At the top of the secret stairway, the butler activated another hidden latch and the wall in front of them opened to a better-lit hallway. The third floor was as richly decorated and conservatively styled as the lower levels. It appeared the whole place was a study in aristocratic, gentlemanly décor. Cultured, generic, and—aside from the secret stairway—rather boring.

Stopping in front of an open room, the butler clicked his heels and gestured stoically for her to enter.

Pompous.

With a roll of her eyes, she handed the servant her pelisse before sweeping past him in a subtle rustle of skirts. She sensed rather than heard him close the door behind her as she found herself in a spacious room dimly lit by candles. Instead of thick carpets underfoot, the floor was a warm, gleaming wood that reflected the dancing firelight from the carved stone hearth. The only furniture in the rather Spartan space was the wide, imposing desk placed in front of the fireplace and the two tall wingback chairs that faced it.

Upon her entrance, the man seated behind the desk rose to his feet. With the fire glowing behind him, she was able to discern that he was a tall man, dressed in dark clothing, with broad shoulders and a trim torso. It was a pleasingly masculine form suggestive of strength and vigor. But Callista had a gift for seeing men with more than her eyes. She could often sense things about them—fears, worries, vulnerabilities, and desires—before they could put them into words. She prided herself on being able to understand the things men preferred to keep buried deep inside.

Already, she could feel the quiet restraint in this one. Though he’d only moved to stand, a steady force emanated from him. As though he could leap into action at any moment but chose quite deliberately not to. That he hadn’t spoken yet suggested he was accustomed to taking his time, allowing things to fall into place as they would before taking command. And he would try to take command. That was evident as well. This was a man who embraced his power quietly but with definite assurance.

But he’d never come up against anyone like her before.

As she strode across the rather cavernous room, Callista knew very well that although he was in deep shadow, she was cast in a fiery light. Her favorite kind. Her black brocade gown would reflect some of the flickering glow while retaining its mysterious darkness, showing off the deep curves of her figure and accenting the sensual movement of her body. Her fair hair would ignite with the light of the flames while her veil would keep her face concealed until she chose to reveal it. Though he couldn’t see it, her gaze remained sharply trained upon the infamously secretive man who’d become her temporary rival.

Reaching the space between the two wingback chairs, she paused to give a disdainful tilt of her head.

Mr. Erik Maxwell, who no one in London had heard of prior to his arrival nearly eight months ago, lifted his hand in a small but definitive gesture. “Please have a seat, madam. It is my honor to receive you.”

The words were formed in a slight, indiscernible accent with a voice that made her think of fine cigars and even finer brandy. Decadent, rich, and masculine, with just the slightest hint of roughness around the edges. Rolled together with understated but undeniable command and confidence.

Goose bumps—delicate and tingling—spread across her skin. She didn’t enjoy the feeling.

Sweeping forward, she lowered herself into one of the chairs. The tall, straight back did not prevent her from reclining with the sensual grace she was famous for. From her new angle in the chair, she was able to discern more details of the man’s face when she glanced up at him.

He looked to be close to fifty in age, though a very virile, well-maintained fifty, to be sure. His hair—dark and liberally laced with silver—was brushed back from a square forehead. Deep-set eyes of an indiscernible color addressed her with keen attention from behind square spectacles. Strong cheekbones, an angled jaw currently shadowed with a day’s growth of salt-and-pepper beard, and a wide sensual mouth.

He was undoubtedly the most distinguished-looking sex proprietor she’d ever seen. A gentleman pimp? The thought made her lips curl.

She replied to his greeting in a smooth, unhurried tone, “I hope my unexpected visit isn’t too much of an imposition.”

By the subtle arch of his dark, slashing brow, she knew they were both aware that imposing was her exact intention. When she saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, her blood heated with a sensation she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Desire. Attraction. Lust.

Dammit. Of course her long-dormant libido would choose now to reignite. But she had never been subservient to her more base desires and she quickly buried the unwanted physical reaction.

“You may feel free to impose upon me anytime, madam,” he said as he reclaimed his seat.

His tone was sincere. The man was smooth.

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